


Almost Truth

by heartratemonitor



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sibling Incest, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartratemonitor/pseuds/heartratemonitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noatak seizes Republic City as his prize, and locks his brother in a room, claiming to protect him from the outside world that would shun someone like him. Tarrlok copes by lying to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Noatak speaks, Tarrlok always makes sure to look him right in the eyes, because he wants him to know his immense disapproval; he soon finds that his silence has far more an effect than protests, harsh on his tongue. Great Amon, leader of the revolution, rendered pathetic by his disgraced brother, turned prisoner of war and bed-mate as of three weeks ago, saying neither yes or no as he undresses him.

“The woman who brings you your meals says you haven’t been eating.”

Tarrlok is clothed in linens that grow larger on his body by the day. Maybe if he’s lucky, it won’t take too long to starve to death, but something tells him that Noatak will find some way to keep him anyway. There are long spaces of time, alone, unoccupied by sex devoid of pleasure and staring blankly at a short-statured Equalist woman, refusing meals that grow more aesthetically pleasing every time he denies them. In those empty hours, he considers ending his life- if one were desperate enough, anything would suffice. The glass cup they fill with water and juice, the dull knife that fails in cutting meat, which he could easily jam into his neck. In the end, he deludes himself into thinking that his lack of action is a result of laziness.

“Tarrlok, please eat,” Noatak says, and his voice is so desperate that he wants to scoff at him. The older man kisses his forehead, his cheeks, and runs his fingers through now oily, unkempt hair. None of this is new. Tarrlok doesn’t glare; it took him a few days of practice, but the glacial ice of his empty expression evidently hurts Noatak more than he anything else he has thrown at him. What little satisfaction he gleans from the man’s despair is all that keeps him alive.

Naturally, a master of manipulation would have tricks of his own up his sleeve. He’s sidestepped these as well; Noatak argues that it is due to his power that he is alive and fed, and Tarrlok screams indignantly that he would rather be dead - Noatak makes promises of books and entertainment, paltry bargains and trinkets, and Tarrlok laughs in his face as the list grows more and more extravagant, and as the weeks pass he grows wise enough to say nothing at all.

Never try to trick a politician. They lie for a living.

It’s pointless to listen now, and as of late he doesn’t even bother to pay attention to his brother’s words at all. It takes little effort to stare at that repulsive fake scar and imagine something nicer, like a monthly trip to a fancy whorehouse, or a meal he can actually enjoy, or Tenzin’s frustrated expression as he outcharms him for the millionth time. His brother is rambling on about sacrifices, something something kindness, something something empty noise, and Tarrlok pictures the snow, and howling at him to return, nearly succumbing to it before Noatak backhands him, the emptiness of his stomach and the lightness of his head conspiring successfully to topple him to the ground.

For a moment, he wants to protest, but his insides are too dry to shout, let alone sob. Noatak turns him onto his back, the floor cold and welcoming. He shakes Tarrlok with a repugnant cocktail of fury and sorrow, only to change his tune like a flippant girl, kissing the bruise blooming on his cheek in apology. Even now, he can’t hear him; he’s tuned him out so far now, this husk of costume armor and dark hair that shares his brother’s name but barely resembles the protector in his memories. This isn’t real; reality is mundane business procedures, public dinners, and vanilla cinnamon bath toiletries. Reality doesn’t involve spending days in a corpse-like stupor and smelling like off brand soap and sickness. Reality doesn’t have Noatak, because Noatak is dead.

Politicians are the best liars; Tarrlok considers himself a master of the art, and perhaps because of this that something separates the fog from his mind, to construct a lie fortified enough to be true. He blinks a few times, and just like that, the voice is clear again, mumbling apologies that he’s heard too many times, with caresses too routine to be sincere, but by then the lie is already sealed.

Noatak is dead. 

He’s towering over him, and could easily crush his organs like the morning paper. Tarrlok’s eyes soften, and he reaches a hand towards this stranger’s cheek. The man leans into his touch.

Noatak is dead.

“It’s alright,” he says with a reassuring smile. “It must have been hard for you. It was hard for me.”

So easy.

“Just don’t leave me again, Noatak.”

The kiss is sweet. Too sweet, like a poorly prepared dessert, or a cheap beverage with empty calories.

Noatak is dead, and this is someone else. He sleeps with him that night and it is softer, by far. The man is a pleased, domesticated catracoon who’s befriended the little ratmouse meant as a meal. Tarrlok doesn’t get hard - he’s not as imaginative as he thinks he is, but he easily blames it on his sickness, and promises he’ll eat the next day. His partner is overjoyed and teary-eyed, and Tarrlok’s lips moisten as he presses them against his cheeks, saying how much he missed him, how glad he is that he’s here to protect him again.

Tarrlok receives a goodbye kiss, and it is not as grotesquely saccharine as the others. It comes close to convincing him.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, Tarrlok takes care to scrub thoroughly, water hot enough to burn. This is not Noatak, he thinks, though he knows otherwise. It will be a game of pretend, one of many he's participated in. Pretend he's not Yakone's son. Pretend he didn't kidnap Avatar Korra. Pretend that he isn't dismantled and disassembled every time he's underneath this man's body. He tells himself that it's his anger sinking down the drain under his feet, but it's not enough to comfort him.

This Noatak is fond of his hair; he strokes it affectionately when Tarrlok scowls, strands oily out of spite. He'll be pleasantly surprised to find that he's washed it, then. Anger isn't the only thing he should discard, he thinks. The Northern Watertribe Councilman would never stand for this treatment; he wouldn't dream of being Amon's toy. He'd die first.

That's what he should do, then.

After drying himself with the towel, he wipes fog from the mirror and sees the effects of his attempted sabotage, bones close to jutting out like ugly pearls from sick skin. All this time, he's made no effort to look at himself, ashamed of what he'd find. It's not as hideous as he feared, but it is nearly unrecognizable. Noatak, as a teen, had delicate features, which broadened in adulthood. His are more slender, sharp cheekbones and prominent nose. The man in front of him looks like neither; loose hair frames his face, distressingly feminine. Tarrlok wants to vomit.

"He's being very kind to me," he says to the mirror, lynching the person who he used to be. "He's being very kind to me, even though he has no reason to."

He falls down the drain and into the pipes. Noatak is dead. Tarrlok should follow.

"I love him."

The reflection frowns. He fights stinging in his eyes. 

"I love him."

Politicians are the best liars, so why is this so hard? Strangled choking comes out of his mouth, and he allows himself the weakness.

"I love him," he says once more, and finally, it's easier to swallow. 

Tarrlok breathes, puts on his clothes, and combs his hair. Breakfast should come at any minute. He sits by the small table and stares at the clock. 

Today's meal is two pancakes served with jam and a glass of juice. Already, he senses that he won’t be able to consume even half of it, but he has a promise to keep, and picks up the knife. The woman crosses her arms.

“Thank you,” he says gently to the anonymous server, surprised at himself. 

At first, she doesn't respond, but her posture relaxes. When she does speak, it is almost kind.

“That mark. Did Amon do that?”

“Oh-” His fingers hover over the bruise on his cheek from the night before. “Yes, but it’s fine.”

He would have preferred another reaction, so he decides not to speak again, focusing on chewing and consuming, which in itself is a difficult task. It hurts going down, and the fluids don’t help, but he has to make an effort. Tarrlok thinks of something else; in this span of captivity he has done so much to distract himself that it is almost meditative. He has always wanted to spend more than a brief vacation in the Fire Nation; their short conversion from genocidal xenophobes to enthusiastic producers of eccentric fashion and strange food is something he’d like to immerse himself in more than once.

He thinks of their slim, compact women with golden eyes and silk black manes, and it helps somewhat. Swallowing becomes an afterthought. He wonders how loud they are in bed, and makes a note to pretend he’s kissing one of them instead of Noatak. Maybe he’ll even get aroused.

“It’s not fine,” the woman says, interrupting his thoughts. “You are our equal now, and he should treat you accordingly. Someone of your political influence would do better to aid others into sympathizing with our cause than rotting away in a cell.”

Are all of them like this? To think, this Equalist has such lofty beliefs about fairness. Her voice is so light that he assumes that she is barely out of her teens. Had this been not too long ago, he would have mocked her.

“I don’t necessarily agree with your cause, so I would be lying if I made those speeches.”

“You’re a politician,” the woman protests. “It is your job to lie, and if you do, you’d get a better room than this one.”

Tarrlok laughs then. This girl is smart. “Your suggestion works, but I don't want a better room. I want to die.”

“Have you told Amon that?” she asks, and there is a frailty to her words that guts him.

“Of course, but this is out of my control.”

By now, he knows he’s already revealed too much, and this woman would cause his plan to crumble beneath him, burying him alive. The meal grows unpalatable, and he’s barely even made it through half of the first pancake. Tarrlok looks down at the plate, disgusted.

“I became an Equalist because of someone I loved. Many of us chose this path for such a reason.” 

She bears such a raw conviction, that he almost envies her foolishness. 

“And while I agree with Amon’s ideals, I don’t agree with what he is doing to you. I should tell someone-”

“Don’t,” Tarrlok pleads. Her unwarranted kindness grinds his bones into powder, and thinks to himself, that if all Equalists fit into this mold, then he almost wants them to succeed. “Please, don’t.”

“Why shouldn't I? Do you want this?”

“No- no I don’t, but I don’t want you to get into trouble. Save your kind ideals for saving the world.”

His hands shake as he pushes the tray away. The girl removes her mask, revealing angular features, watery green eyes, and chin length black hair.

“My name is Sekai. I’ll honor your request, and pray for the Spirits to be gentle to you.”

“Thank you,” he replies, thinking that her pity is something out of fiction. She nods, puts her mask back on, and takes his food, heading for the door.

“Wait.” 

Tarrlok doubts himself, but continues regardless. “That person you loved. Did they die?”

“No. I stopped loving them. Take care, I’ll see you at lunch.”

 

 

—

 

Because the Equalist conquest swells with child, Amon is not needed in the forefront as often, the majority of his business now arguments and meetings with Hiroshi, concerning machines and the future. Which surrounding cities to swallow, issues with minor revolts. It proves to be more bureaucracy than he has bargained for, but no one ever said equality got any easier. He meets with Mr. Sato over lunch, the chatter nearing casual. All his enemies have gone into hiding, Korra aided in escape after having her bending ripped from her. 

Sato’s smile is slimy when he poses his next topic. “How is that bloodbender treating you? It must be like having a tigerlion as a pet. Does he bite?”

Noatak wants to rip out his throat, remembering Tarrlok that night, his kisses light and tender. He had waited for so long for him to come around, and now that he is entirely willing, this man’s words feel like venom in his mouth.

“No, not at all. He’s very compliant.”

His companion chuckles. Noatak is glad that the hand on his lap is under the table, which he clenches until his knuckles are white.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to share.”

The mask is a blessing. He narrows his eyes and causes an ache in Sato’s intestines, and they excuse each other swiftly. Noatak only visits his brother in the evenings, but the whole exchange makes him so enraged that he makes a point to see him this afternoon, with a change of nicer clothes for him, perhaps those shampoos and soaps he saw in the man’s now abandoned home, and maybe some sweets.

He spends until a little after mid noon procuring the items and placing them in a discreet bag- a much thicker blanket, comfortable pajamas, toiletries with favorable scents, and traditional Northern Watertribe candies. His heart falters for a fraction of a second and knows that none of these gifts are enough to make up for what he has done, but decides to silence this truth as he heads to Tarrlok’s door. It makes it easier.

There are words exchanged. Oh yes, he should be eating lunch right about now, but he’s speaking to someone, it seems, though he has no reason to.

“Your name means “world” in an antiquated Fire Nation sub-dialect.”

“Really? I just thought it didn't mean anything. I sometimes questioned why despite all these land masses separating us, that our language ended up the same.”

Tarrlok sounds confident and well schooled; sometimes Noatak forgets this. “Our nations share a common tongue, that much is true, but if you go deep into different areas the language alters significantly. One word in the Fire Nation can mean something else entirely in the Earth Kingdom. In some areas that are more isolated, such as the Foggy Swamp Tribe, the way a few of the older generations speak is often hard to distinguish. You seem Foggy Swamp or Earth Kingdom in origin, Sekai.”

“Wow, correct! My family hails from Foggy Swamp, but they tend not to speak much about their origins. They don’t want to be considered unintelligent simpletons.”

“See, this is why sometimes I think that it’s a human defect to be cruel to those they don’t understand, rather than just bending itself. The Fire Nation viewed the rest of the world as savages less than a century ago, and even now they have severe strains in their culture. It wasn't a matter of benders or nonbenders-”

Noatak opens the door without knocking, and the two freeze as he enters. Sekai bows and makes her exit; Tarrlok curls smaller as the older man places his gifts on the side of the table, next to his mask.

“Please don’t be mad, brother.”

It's difficult to restrain a gasp. His prisoner's hair falls like a silk curtain over his shoulders; paired with downcast eyes. Noatak runs a thumb along his cheek. Tarrlok's eyes flutter shut, but he does not recoil. 

"I'm not mad. It's natural for you to try to reach out for company. It must be boring here. I apologize for not giving you any entertainment."

Tarrlok shot down all his offers before, but now he just smiles and nods. "Don't apologize. I'm glad you're not angry."

Shame claws at him, to be already aroused, and he attempts to hide this. No resistance meets him when he tucks a few wayward strands at the back of his brother's ear, or when he kisses his forehead. He encloses Tarrlok's palm with his own, and is both pleased and shattered when the gesture is returned.

“How is your appetite?”

“I ate a little, but it made me nauseous.”

“If your health doesn't improve in a few days, I’ll have you tended to.”

“Thank you.”

He is sheepish, eyes bashful. Noatak assumes that it's shame for enjoying something considered revolting in society, but is at least relieved to find him accepting it. 

"Did you bring these for me?"

Oh. He's forgotten himself already. "Yes. They're for you."

A quivering stirs under his ribs when Tarrlok removes the items one by one from the wrapping, eyes growing wider and damper until he crumbles into muted tears. Noatak takes him into his arms and strokes his hair as his little brother buries himself in his shoulder.

"This is a lot, that's all. This is a lot- for me."

Tarrlok pulls himself away, only to swoop into a clumsy kiss, which almost makes his heart stop. He's too aroused now, and lifts him to the bed, reminding himself that he's sick; he should be gentle. His brother's eyes squint shut and he shows visible desire, for once. The sounds he makes are restrained, as though louder cries strangled themselves to death his throat. Noatak keeps his movements slow and deliberate, fearing paper thin china powdering into his fingers. 

His prisoner comes first; it's enough for him to spill right there. An accomplishment, if there was any. Tarrlok turns onto his side after he separates, and sighs. Noatak rearranges himself. These atrocious duties would prevent him from seeing his brother within the next week. As much as he would loathe himself to admit, now he wants nothing more than to remain here.

“I have obligations I must attend to. If your condition does not improve, do not hesitate to tell my associates.”

Tarrlok nods. Noatak covers him with the new blanket, and walks out the door.

He wants to tell him that he loves him, but decides against it.


	3. Chapter 3

Tarrlok retches blood four days before the end of the month; Amon summons their best doctor for his spoiled slut. His second-in-command worries for their leader, to be so enamored by shit under his boot. None of his other colleagues, however, disapprove. Truly, no feat is too strong for this man, to tame the former bloodbending councilman into a pliant war trophy. They murmur scandalously between dinners; older men pester the girl who serves his meals with lewd questions. She answers none of them.

Curiosity won’t kill him, and he’s dying to know. Prior to fetching the doctor, he meets with Sekai and inquires like the rest of them.  _What is he like? How does he act?_

“He’s very quiet. Soft spoken. Intelligent. Nothing like the papers made him out to be.”

_Has he ever tried to attack you?_

“He was silent for most of the month, but that hardly counts as an attack. I kept thinking that he wanted to catch me off guard one day, but he never did.”

Traitorous pity drawls from her mouth. As expected; if Tarrlok has charmed Amon, he would naturally be capable of persuading someone more simple minded. It’s easy to picture. A gentle face for the girl. A talented mouth for his leader. A wilting flower for his doctor.

He won’t fall for it. He’s stronger than them.

Luzon meets him by the hallway dressed in mismatched pastels, tan skin stark against dyed blond hair. As absurd his attire, he is the finest nonbending healer Republic City has ever seen, and fortunately sympathizes with their cause. Madness and genius often did pair each other unflatteringly. He nods a quick greeting, supplies held in a nondescript black case, watching the numerous locks undone with more of that disgusting concern.

“These aren’t all necessary, are they? He clearly tried to starve himself to death. He can’t break any one of these down.”

It’s not even worth honoring with a reply. Tarrlok sits at the edge of the bed, enshrouded in a thick navy blanket and staring firmly at the ground. His hair is untied, a dull halo reflected from the overhead light. 

A gentle, dying flower for the doctor.

“Tarrlok,” Luzon addresses him politely. “I’m Luzon, your healer. I’ll be doing a physical, but I can tell you now, that most of your problems are due to undernourishment  You tried to eat recently, but since your body was deprived of food for so long, it didn’t react well. We’ll try to gradually reintroduce food. Warm milk. Small fruit. Basic things that are easy on the stomach.”

Famished eyes scrutinize the young man’s face, as though seeking to tear the soul out, to categorize as friend or enemy.

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

 _Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for it._  Tarrlok’s expression remains calm as Luzon prods his body parts; temperature, tongue, the stethoscope against his chest. Such practices seem to be foreign for their patient, who reacts with unfamiliarity with all the tools presented. No complaints, however. All compliance.

_Don’t fall for it._

“I’ll have the food ready for your dinner. If you can’t swallow the fruit, don’t, but at least try to finish the milk. We’ll follow-up within the next week to see if you’re ready to graduate to heavier things.”

Unsurprisingly, he is cordial and placid. Grateful, even. Luzon leaves, stopping at the door to see that his companion remains inside, only to continue his exit. A wise decision.

What face will he give now? Knuckles ball fabric underneath them tighter and closer; eyebrows furrow. Is he angry to know that he couldn’t fool everyone? Won’t that be rich.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get on with it.”

That takes him aback. The lieutenant looms menacingly closer, signals gone haywire. He grasps Tarrlok’s chin and examines clinically, expecting defiance and met with dust and shadow. Hadn’t he agreed to be Amon’s pet pigeon-dove to keep his life? Didn’t he refuse food simply to waste away muscle and fit the perfect description of a whore? A frantic pulse drums under his fingertips, grazing the neck. It would be so easy.

What does Amon see in him? He steals a kiss, prying open his mouth. Tarrlok returns his furious tongue with little vigor, gasping bashfully as fingers dip under the waistband of his pants. Flaccid. Two strokes. Five. No effect. He bends him over the table and pins his hands behind his back, though there’s no reason to. There’s a complete absence of struggle, and it intoxicates like the strongest liquor. To think, that this is the same man who bloodbent him to his knees.

Hopefully, spit would be enough. Tarrlok whimpers pitifully, but does not fight him. He’s had other male lovers before, but this sensation is new and grips him like a vice. It’s tearing at everything he loathes, and he basks in it, rutting into him senseless. Any sounds beneath him are drowned out by his own grunts; he even releases quicker than he’d hoped. Sticky red drips from his victim’s thighs; had he really not noticed?

“You’re bleeding,” he says, more to himself.

“I know.”

There’s nothing to fall for. A boulder forms in his throat at the late discovery, threatening to erupt. 

Tarrlok’s fingers curl like dried flowers under his grip. “It’s alright.” 

He can’t wrap his mind around this resignation, so he wipes himself off and howls like a child in a tantrum instead.  Their prisoner makes no effort to move;  he rushes the wounded man into tub and runs the cold water- cold helps with bleeding, right? The former councilman stares without emotion at the pinking water, and proceeds to scrub himself mechanically. An unfairly light scent of vanilla and bergamot fills the bathroom. Amon’s lieutenant turns his back to him.

“I’m so sorry.”

 ”I didn’t struggle. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, feeling monstrous. 

Prisoner of war. Nonbender. Flightless bird.

_These aren’t all necessary, are they? He clearly tried to starve himself to death._

“You acknowledge that what you did was wrong. That’s more than most people.”

Who is most people? Avatar Korra and her ragtag team of supportive adults? The Equalists? Amon? It annihilates him. His mouth spills out nasty whines while Tarrlok’s body sloshes in the tub; the flowery smell grows unbearable.

“Stop sniveling,” the former politician remarks curtly, and it’s enough to snap his body around in alarm. “I don’t care what you did to me. It’s alright. If you’re in the mood to make it up to me, you’re welcome to. It gets very droll here.”

“How can you say that?”

Tarrlok grins bloodlessly; a microsecond that borders on hallucination, before returning to resigned tranquility.

“Say what? It really is dull, just to eat three meals and fuck someone every few nights. I can’t exaggerate that.”

“How can you say that what I did to you is in any way acceptable?”

He pours a coin sized droplet from a thin glass vial and rubs it into his hair. “I bloodbended Avatar Korra, her woefully ignorant teenage friends, Councilman Tenzin, Chief Saikhan, and Former Chief Beifong. I also did that to you, Amon, and his men. That’s not acceptable either. People do unacceptable things to each other on a daily basis. Isn’t that what your revolution is fighting against?”

Nothing to fall for. Nothing there.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says again in vain, knowing no amount of words can fix this.

“You’ve said that three times. Come back when you intend to make it up to me. Just be wary of Amon’s schedule.”

Like a moronic butterfly-moth to a flame, he approaches the tub, followed by the captive’s raven-hawk eyes.

“Do you think I’m cute, Lieutenant? I know I don’t look like how I used to in the papers anymore. I didn’t do this to seduce Amon, but I’m certain your change of heart made you aware of this.”

“Tarrlok-“

“That’s a yes, correct?”

He doesn’t believe himself. “Not cute, no.”

A scoff. “What then?”

“Like those- those roses husbands give to their wives in full bloom, and are given a nice place to die.”

That elicits a smile, and the fluttering of lashes. “This is hardly a nice place, but adequate. You should have taken up poetry instead of violence.”

“I did, once. It offered me no money.”

“Pity.” He runs the shower and rinses himself clean. “What’s your name?”

“What’s Amon’s name?” he counters.

“That’s hardly fair. If I tell you his name, you might say it by accident, and I’ll get in trouble.”

A quickening panics in his heart. “So you know his name.”

“Of course. What else would I shout when he fucks me?”

“Is it his real name?”

Tarrlok rummages for a towel and proceeds as though he’s alone. “Yes. It’s a beautiful name.”

There’s a reverence to the tone; how disturbing.

“I won’t tell you mine, then.”

After changing hurriedly into a new set of pajamas, he begins to brush his hair. “Give me a fake one. Lieutenant is a mouthful.”

“Lee.” 

Let it never be known that he was the creative sort.

“Generic. I like it.”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, his wilting flower gives him a fleeting peck on the lips, before returning to a cocooned position on the bed.

“This isn’t ok, Tarrlok.”

“I know.”

‘Lee’ kneels down and hesitantly takes his hand, kissing it in apology.

“It’s not ok, but it is easier now.”


	4. Chapter 4

Entombed under Noatak’s blankets, Tarrlok dismantles Lee in his head, and debates what he wants him to be. He didn’t fight his rape; it would have been useless to try with a body weaker than crocuses stomped underfoot. The apology, however, took him by surprise. Even his brother doesn’t apologize for what he continues to do, because he undoubtedly considers service an adequate price for lodgings. What does he want his lieutenant to be, then?

If he continues to anger him, Lee could eventually be lured to ending his life. A tempting prospect, yes, but he likes the concern as well, kneading like dough under aching fingerprints. Whither in his palm and be showered with unwelcome embraces; he almost likes that. It terrifies him, how badly he welcomes it. To accept this means to further divorce himself from Councilman Tarrlok, until his old self can be finally laid to rest. He’ll have no more arrogance left then; none of that bitterness. It will be a painless surrender. What a welcome comfort, to have at least that part of him die.

Breakfast arrives: a glass of milk and a pear. Sekai removes her mask and watches him down it slowly.

“Are you alright with this?”

Tarrlok manages half the glass. “You mean this circumstance? I’m not pleased with it, but all my needs are tended to, so I have no complaints.”

Her lip quivers. “I know what it’s like to be weak- to be made weak.”

He nods at her confession, and is assaulted with the beginnings of nausea. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s why I hate this for you. It isn’t fair.”

“Sekai, I doubt you’ve committed as many crimes as me. The outside world will not welcome me back with open arms. What Amon has given me is an enormous mercy.”

She stifles a sob with a hiccup. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

He owns nothing and can lose nothing, so he stands up to embrace her in what he hopes is a comforting, fatherly gesture. She cries into Noatak’s silk pajamas, thanks him, and leaves with his mostly consumed meal. Tarrlok perches at the edge of the bed and retrieves the candied seaweed his brother gifted him, wondering if overdosing on sugar could cause death. What is he thinking? That’s ridiculous. He folds the blankets, smooths any wrinkles meticulously, and sits in the chair, emptying his mind until there is only empty space and the sound of breathing.

There is someone knocking; not even Sekai knocks. Lee enters without kali sticks and battle attire, observing him as though catching a glimpse of a rare bird of paradise. Tarrlok decides to wilt. Wilting has given him nothing but kindness in turn, if experience is any indicator.

“What are we doing today?” he asks gently, keeping his gaze low.

The man approaches with respectful caution; stealing light, fleeting contact. He pushes long strands away for a better look at his face, and traces the sharp outline of cheekbones. Tarrlok closes his eyes and imagines his body turning into something less than human; a doll to be played with and dressed up into whatever this man and Noatak want him to be. It helps immensely. A human would never agree to this, but he’s descended now, soul bleached clean of any name or dignity. 

“Lay on the bed on your stomach.” 

The order is too kind. Tarrlok obliges, thinking that this would be a repeat of yesterday, only less painful. A languid gasp escapes his mouth as muscles melt under strong hands massaging them, and he makes even more, completely shameless. Dolls have no shame; flowers left in beautiful vases have no pride. He thinks that this is some inverse of chi blocking, because everything feels lighter, his limbs and fingers tended to as well. At some point, his gasps turn into sobs, muffled and quiet in his pillow.

Lee stops, alarmed. “Am I hurting you?”

Tarrlok feels crushed and insignificant, which he counts as a good thing. “No, and that’s why it hurts.”

It would be a mistake to look at him; he’s afraid of what he’ll find, so he keeps his eyes closed. The caresses on his cheek and the thumb tracing his mouth leave him with a pleasant sting in his chest. The man wipes the tears away and kisses the lids for ones that aren’t coming.

“You’re not pushing me away. If you don’t like this, I can stop.”

“I like it,” he says, unsure if it’s a lie. The tingles that come like high tide waves bring him a strange comfort, a sensation absent when Noatak fucks him. “I like it a lot.”

“You’re not aroused,” he remarks.

What a charming idiot. He decides that he is tolerable. 

Tarrlok chuckles. “I don’t have to be aroused to like something.”

Curiosity gets the better of him; he opens his eyes and can gather that Lee is in love, or something resembling it. He really is an idiot, and the former councilman-turned-nothing reaches to cup the stranger’s cheek. Surely, this will lure him in like a fish. The expression softens into putty; he leans down to kiss him, and Tarrlok holds onto him as though he’ll drown, returning his tongue with an intense ferocity that he normally reserves for attractive, foreign women.

Everything blurs like a hurried photograph- Tarrlok mutters about the lube in the drawer and crawls onto his lap after discarding his lower garments. He’s hard; he doesn’t understand why, but decides not to question it. The man is slower this time and guides him with experienced hands. It borders on painless and gentle; a good, respectful lay with two consenting adults. Almost, that is. Lee’s mouth is absurdly talented, tongue lapping at parts he didn’t even know were sensitive. Don’t leave marks, he warns, Amon will see- the line is placed. Tarrlok is embarrassed at how loud he is. He must look like a whore.

He is a whore, he reminds himself. That’s all he is now, he says inside, releasing first in a hoarse cry. He’s pumped into until his partner does as well, panting with arms clasped protectively around his waist. Tarrlok is tired enough for a mid morning nap, but he’s carried to the bath, the water warm this time. Lee tosses a vial of scented bath salts into the tub, the entire thing ungodly soothing.

“This doesn’t smell like my soaps. It’s lavender, correct?”

“Lavender has a calming effect.”

“I’ll have to tell Amon that Sekai gave them to me.”

“Did he give you the toiletries? It isn’t standard issue here.”

Tarrlok chooses his words carefully. If he reveals that Noatak had attempted to buy a brand similar to the one he owned at home, it may reveal Amon’s traitorous investment on his spoiled prisoner. 

“Yes. I assumed he wanted me to smell like a woman.”

Why is he protecting him? What does he owe his brother?

“I see.”

He grins flirtatiously. “It seems to work, doesn’t it? I personally like the shampoo. It’s better than anything I’ve used.”

Lee’s eyes are wide and remorseful. Tarrlok scowls.

“Don’t give me that look. This is a fair deal. Lodgings in exchange for service. I even get a sweet-tempered doctor who dresses like a train wreck.”

Neither of them laugh. 

“You don’t deserve this.”

“I’m a bloodbender. According to society, I don’t deserve anything.”

He finds his palm enclosed under warm ones. Tarrlok turns his head away.

“You should leave. Lunch is coming in an hour.” The kiss on his hand is too sincere. It drives him mad.

“Thanks for the massage.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like more?”

Both of them laugh this time.

“Do you even have to ask?”

How stupid of him, to fall for Amon’s prisoner. Tarrlok smiles like a fool all the way to his second meal of the day, and Sekai eyes him worryingly, but decides not to comment on it. They chat about his trip to the Fire Nation, and he remarks that all their women treated him like an exotic, handsome savage.

“Bending isn’t evil. Ignorance is.”

She seems to absorb the statement. He’ll never repeat that to Lee, though.


	5. Chapter 5

In the evening, Sekai informs Tarrlok that she'll be gone for the next two days to train recruits. All this time, he assumed that she was a simple errand girl, but it becomes clear that Noatak had appointed her specifically because of her capacity to subdue. Fear and morbid excitement cut into his sleeping hours, to have a replacement that may potentially kill him. When Lee comes in with the morning tray, however, he can't help but be amused.  
  
Captivity made him grow used to being watched, but this man's gaze is new and unfamiliar; leaving him a different sort of naked. Cream hands stop inches from him, as though asking for permission, and Tarrlok nods as he bites into the apple. Lee massages his shoulders, eliciting pleased sighs. For once, all the food goes down; he's close to regretting it.  
  
Digits lace themselves in his hair, and begin to braid the strands. "What do you think of Amon?"  
  
Tarrlok wants to retch, but holds it in. "He's been very patient with me. I'm grateful for that."  
  
"What do you think Amon thinks of you?"  
  
Lee's words are a wound being reopened. The prisoner's breaths come out ragged.  
  
"I never fought him physically, but I made it clear that I wasn't pleased with this arrangement. I think he's glad that I've completely surrendered."  
  
Calloused fingers push the braid aside, lips pressed on the curve of his neck. An embrace holds him from behind, and he melts into it, a trail of kisses left on quivering skin. "I'm sorry," the man murmurs after each small contact. Tarrlok thinks that this sensation must be not unlike death, but it's a pleasant, warm death that he doesn't mind settling for.  
  
He's motioned into leaving his chair and onto the bed, back sinking into now-familiar sheets. Lee treats him like strands of gems; he decides right then never to mention his low opinion of Noatak's cause, fearing this pleasure torn from him. With uncharacteristic shyness, Tarrlok decides to allow his hands to roam as well, having almost forgotten how to do so. He made no efforts to reciprocate with Noatak, and even now, keeps any affection restrained.  
  
"Was he your first?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Do you want this right now?"  
  
"No," Tarrlok replies shakily, afraid that this is the truth.  
  
He's held like a child in response, and crumples in his arms. Lee rubs his back; it's different this time. It comes close to persuading him that he isn't sullied beyond cleaning, even though he knows it isn't true. How much worse this is to being naked; reduced to bareness and the most minute of consolation prizes. Should he consider this a victory? That a stranger is willing to refrain from fucking him if he doesn't want it, but not his brother?  
  
It destroys him, to be weak, but weakness has given him nothing but kindness. "I don't want it right now, but if you do, I won't refuse it."  
  
"Tarrlok, no-" Lee starts, but by now he's already decided to lower himself in the dirt (it will get easier, it's getting easier), lapping at pallid, inviting skin. No resistance meets him when he undoes his companion's pants. He ponders if he can practice now and please his brother later, and lowers his head, only to have a hand grasp him firmly by the wrist.  
  
He pities Noatak's second in command, to be too gentle for work as repulsive as this revolution.  
  
The horror in his voice is what breaks him. "Why are you doing this?"  
  
Tarrlok tries to breathe, but it comes out ugly and wet.  
  
"I want this to be easier. I want this to be painless."  
  
The grip on his arm loosens. "Don't."  
  
"Let me," he pleads, even though Lee is far from aroused by his childish tears. The man zips up his pants and lets him cry in his lap. It's not a bad consolation prize, he decides. It's certainly better than what he grew to expect. It takes some time, but he calms down, trying to shake the familiarity of this comfort. Selfless; brotherly.  
  
He attempts to smile while buried in the crook of the man‘s shoulder. "Don't pity me. Remember the task force. Remember the nonbender curfew. Remember that I'm a bloodbender."  
  
The braid tangles under Lee’s reverent fingers.  
  
"You were."  
  
-  
  
When Noatak returns as promised after grueling talks and revolts nipped in mid-flower, Tarrlok occupies the seat with a red journal he doesn’t recognize. He writes with a metal ballpoint pen, an absurdly expensive invention from a rival of Future Industries. His brother flashes him a smile, closing the pages shut.  
  
“Sekai gave these to me. She’s such a sweet young woman.”  
  
 _Do you fancy her?_  
  
 _Anyone will do. It would be nice to be doing the fucking for once._  
  
The elder hides the temptation to frown, watching spindly fingers tracing the book spine like a whore’s shoulder, before tucking it away in the clothing shelf.  
  
“I’ve always wanted a younger sister. Maybe I would have stopped being a crybaby, for her.”  
  
 _You’re disgusting, Noatak._  
  
“She would have only suffered.”  
  
“That’s true.”  
  
After brief, remarkable silence, Tarrlok leaves his seat and undresses him without a word, snapping off the shoulder pauldrons, the buckles of his gauntlets - _his face says nothing_ \- the sash around his waist. Noatak is at a loss for what to do. His brother undoes the collar of his undershirt and warms exposed skin with his tongue, slow and deliberate. It’s easy to hold onto him. To fit into his shape.  
  
He’s willing to bet that Tarrlok is doing everything with his eyes closed in order to pretend that it’s someone else. Noatak strokes his hair as he finds his lap occupied, holding his brother - lover, unwilling, half-hearted lover - close.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
Tarrlok laughs nervously, a flawless mirror of his early teens, when he laughed after falling over ice, knocking knees against stones. During one of their trips, he let an arctic rabbit escape dinner, resulting in a firm whack across the face. He cackled then, once and only once. Every incident following that, he bit his lip shut.  
  
“I know you do, and I appreciate it.”  
  
Noatak can’t get hard. His brother asks if he is unwell, with no traces of mockery in his intent. Somehow he dresses himself faster than any other occasions he can recall, eyes following him like mournful shadows. Tarrlok grips the bedsheets and stares at his feet; it hits home that this can’t be repaired. He can’t be repaired.  
  
“I love you too.”  
  
They meet each other’s gaze. Noatak is aghast by his sincerity, now certain that he’s bound to a hell darker than his father’s. His prisoner rises to embrace him, and he accepts the fire willingly, the sack of bone and failing organs that make up his broken brother.  
  
“Would you like anything from me? I know you’ve rejected them before, but I have all the resources in Republic City.” He’s grasping at straws. “Do you want to go outside? I can have someone escort you.”  
  
“Give me whatever you think I’d like. It will be a surprise.” Tarrlok tightens his hold. “I don’t want to go outside. I’d hate to be recognized.”  
  
 _You’re a completely different person._  
  
A corpse, Noatak decides. A corpse that entrances young women to give him gifts; soft lips, siren hair, and knobby knuckles. Only a dead man would reject the chance to see the sun.  
  
“The doctor recommended it.”  
  
“I’ll go then.” No protest. “Who are you sending to come with me? Why not you?”  
  
He keeps firm, but kind. “I’m very busy, and I don’t want to risk anyone making a connection to Amon without any scars.”  
  
“Alright.” Tarrlok releases him and smiles. “Thank you.”  
  
 _You’ve ruined him. He’s dead._  
  
In some parts of the Fire Nation, artisans break pottery, only to repair the cracks with gold, fine veins marking the reassembled pieces. As Noatak kisses his forehead and rubs circles against a slender neck, he swears Tarrlok is almost all gold now, his former self fine powder in the snow. Gold locked away in storage, without light to make it shine.  
  
"I'm sending my lieutenant. He won't be fond of you, but I'm certain he won't harm you."  
  
Was that a fleeting smile?  
  
"You'll be tarnishing your image by letting me outside."  
  
Noatak's heart falls down three stories. "I'll make sure he won't tell a soul, then."  
  
A cocoon of blankets forms under him, Tarrlok's head peeking out with a weak curve of the mouth and closed lids. "I'm glad I stopped fighting you. I should have been more grateful."  
  
Tarrlok, a teenager, begging for him to come back. Tarrlok with a flowering bruise, wailing after being smacked by his father yet again. Tarrlok, almost too small, laughing as Noatak rests his hands over tiny shoulders.  
  
Ever the coward, Noatak doesn't correct him. He kisses him goodnight, and dons the mask.  
  
 _You've killed him._


	6. Chapter 6

Sunlight filters through the tall windows of Amon’s study, his second in command steeling himself for the pressing concern of the day. If one were to ask him, the city runs itself; all known benders had been equalized, and the ordinary citizen, while inconvenienced, dutifully follows curfew. No word on the disappearance of the Avatar, but with her bending gone, it shouldn’t even be an issue.

“Lieutenant, do you have an inkling why all of our new recruits left within the first week of training?”

There’s no way to tell if this is a rhetorical question, despite its validity. All twenty-five recruits abandoned their pledge like rotting flies, and the very thought of it baffled him. Questioning the women who trained them left no clues, and his leader must be growing impatient. Even after years of service, Amon can still humiliate him without effort.

“It’s for the best, sir. We have no room for cowards in this line of work. One of them must have spread lies about our cause and dragged down all the other weak minded idiots with him.”

The mask hides any grimace, scowl, or grin. Just like cheating. “I doubt most of them were weak of mind. Whoever planted this seed is a great danger to this city, to be able to persuade with words alone. Surely even a fool would see how much trouble this would cause.”

With him, Amon uses only words to cut and tear. He can’t help but think about Tarrlok.

_He has a beautiful name._

Lee once longed to run his fingers across that scar, to kiss marred lips beneath them. Such desires faded with duty, replaced by disgust at his weakness to consider an act so intimate. Now he knows there was no chance, either way. It seems that the man is only satisfied with lovers who are entirely at his mercy.

“I’ll see to it that all the trainees who left are thoroughly investigated, then.”

“You can start after you escort the former councilman outside. I’d like him to see the improvements I’ve made to the city.”

Dimly, he pictures Tarrlok begging, and any sacrifices involving such a request. Amon must be reading the revulsion in his face as one towards his prisoner. A pause that would have been his argument hangs in the air. He makes no attempt to snatch it, overcome with a host of fears. Let that be the sole secret he has been able to keep from this man, while he shoulders a secret in exchange.

“Return him in four hours, unharmed. Don’t stray too far.”

“Understood.”

They walk through winding corridors to Tarrlok’s cell, isolated from others and close to a ghost town of empty bedrooms, one of which hides an exit that only he and Amon know of. Well, he, Amon, and soon to be Tarrlok. Five locks later reveals the man’s hunched form, clothed in watery lavenders and dark, dull purples. The garments fit him like silk gloves over slim fingers, so far removed from the bulk and pompousness barely a month prior. No one would ever mistake him for the councilman.

Men during their off hours would chuckle about sex positions - _shouldn’t be much of a punishment, he’s already a fruity little shit - I hope he bleeds every time_ \- while women call him fortunate, blushes shielded under uniform. Now that Lee sees it, feels himself wrung dry while Amon runs a thumb along Tarrlok’s lips and receives neither a flinch nor a glare, it serves nothing but to gut him. His leader addresses the prisoner in a voice normally reserved for children.

“Do not attempt to escape.”

“I would have nowhere to go.”

Tarrlok is property. He knows he is property; withering paper in Amon’s flames, taking hold of his hand and rising close to his master’s height. Lee swallows. The three arrive at the fifth dorm, revealing the secret exit hidden behind a dummy bookcase. Tarrlok thanks them both, parting ways with Amon and following his lieutenant through a poorly lit hall that led to the outside world.

“It’s hard to believe he allowed me this. I can’t even explain it, because I know this isn’t something I deserve-“

Lee stops walking. Tarrlok faces him with genuine fear, blossoming to a relieved smile.

“Are you going to kill me now? I won’t blame you.”

It’s difficult to wrap his mind around anyone who’d thank- who'd _smile_ at his rapists. Is this what he means by making it easier? By making it painless. Despite Lee’s attempts to make amends for what he’s done, the threat of death always loomed behind him. Maybe he was too afraid to say no.

All the horrors he’s faced against the bending elite did not prepare him for this, for how he’s shaking with hideous tears as he holds Tarrlok like a favorite toy, or a mute doll.

“If you’d like me to, I will.”

“Ah- it’s not often I’m given choices these days. I’m nowhere near as good as making them as I used to. I’ll let you decide.”

Lee’s hands find themselves in Tarrlok’s hair; he knows he can’t even be certain if they’re welcome there, and feels himself sink deeper. Maybe he’ll take him now, away from this place. Amon can find another lieutenant, and maybe they’ll move to the more rural areas of the Earth Kingdom, away from both their histories. The revolution is getting too violent anyway, and Hiroshi’s insane suggestions to use his technology to bomb other nations with predominant bending tendencies is growing too large to control. Tarrlok can’t bloodbend him now; he’s clearly very intelligent, and would have no difficulty finding a job.

_What makes you think he’ll stay with you? You don’t even know anything about him._

“That’s too important a decision to leave to someone else,” he answers sternly, forcing a smile of his own. “I’ll buy you breakfast. I didn’t have time to bring one up without Amon seeing.”

Tarrlok smirks. “Oh, so it’s a date.”

It suits him.

“Pick a name.”

“Naoki.”

Lee pockets his mask and goggles as they exit out of the side of an apartment building. “I found this charming stranger last week, and while I’m normally married to my work, I liked him enough to take a break from my duties.”

“Oh, he must be a catch then! Did you meet him at the job?”

“Goodness no. He and I have conflicting beliefs on this matter, but opposites do attract, after all.”

That laugh outshines all the ones in radio broadcasts; no contest. “He’d break like a twig at that line of work. Poor fellow probably has a boring job filing papers and forms. Maybe he wanted a bad boy like you.”

An unplanned snort. “I’m too old to be a bad boy. That’s awful.”

“You’re enough of a bad boy to buy me a cake, right? Because I do miss cake.”

“As big a cake as you can eat, sweetheart.”

“That’s going to be a very small cake.”

Everything about him ensnares; even as a councilman back then. The speeches that command simultaneous respect and revulsion. That shit eating grin. Is he in love with this recent helplessness? People love flowers, and flowers naturally die, clipped from the ground. Is he in love with his repentance? Nobody would take such debasement unless they thought they deserved it, and Lee can’t contest that this punishment doesn’t suit the crime.

Tarrlok laughs and meanders into long descriptions of how everything is so bright and overpowering; so many smells - spring flowers, heavy perfume, and food stands. How his legs are already tired. Lee leads him to a restaurant with outdoor tables, unsnapping the kali sticks from his back and met with fearful stares. He orders berry crepes while his companion asks for a strawberry shortcake parfait, smiling too sincerely to bear.

History, favorite foods, hobbies in his spare time, books he’s read- Lee knows none of these things. It makes no sense, what he’s feeling, and he never enjoys things he can’t explain. If he’s careful, Amon won’t find out, and he can get to know Tarrlok in the meantime, and relieve him of some lighter secrets, gems hidden under his throat. There should be plenty stashed away; a son of Yakone who kept his past under lock and key has more than enough implications of shame.

Tarrlok spoons cake pieces drenched in syrup into his mouth; overwhelmed, grinning at the sweetness. “You seem upset.”

“You don’t. I don’t understand.”

“I don’t have a reason to be upset. Amon is very fair. He’s never asked me for more than what I was capable of giving. He never pushes me too hard.”

_Guilty. Guilty._

Lee can’t eat more than a few bites, because in that absent space between words is his crime. Tarrlok doesn’t seem to notice, or is making an effort not to take note. “And this weather is beautiful. I’m very fortunate. It really isn’t fair-”

“-Did he force himself on you, like I did?”

A family of four. Two young men, one Watertribe, one pale skinned with dark, limp waves, staring briefly before minding their own business. Amon’s great vision for this city.

“There was never any force involved.” His smile vanishes. “There was no force with you, either, because I didn’t fight you.”

He never enjoys things he can’t explain. It’s wicked; it’s violent, to continue this facade. Lee’s nails claw at his knees.

“I can stop seeing you if you like. I don’t think anything I can do for you will make up for what I’ve done.”

Tarrlok’s desperation is at once muted and bare. “Stay. Please. It’s better than just him.”

The man whose cause he dedicated his life to, gradually disassembling. He never did try to teach others how to take bending away, claiming it was a gift granted only to him. Not an equal. He never consults others for advice in his agenda, shooting down suggestions and pleas like birds in flight. He wavers in discussions with Sato - _bombing the Fire Nation simply because their society is centered around bending is outright absurd_ \- well, they wouldn’t have that problem if he taught his technique to others.

Not an equal. Equalist subordinates. Citizens caught tattle taling on each other in exchange for credentials. Former Councilman Tarrlok, who may as well be dead. Who is irrefutably property.

Like a parlor trick, the smile falls back into place. “Thanks for the breakfast. Do you mind if I use the bathroom? The sweets are doing a number on my stomach.”

If he runs, he won’t stop him. “Of course.”

Lee’s heart leaps to his throat; Tarrlok gives him a peck on the cheek with no regard for public opinion, before leaving his sight. The Watertribe boy whispers to his companion, most likely disgusted. Who is he to talk? That ugly, shaved head save strands on either ear and locks that partially cover his face does him no favors. He leaves his seat and heads towards the bathroom as well - is this a cause for panic? Any given eatery expects a lot of traffic in that area.

He decides to wait seven minutes, the stranger’s face contorting to a despair he cannot see. Tarrlok washes his hands after failing to vomit, only to freeze at sudden recognition.

“…Korra?”

“Come with us, Tarrlok!” She snatches his wrist; mirroring violence that seems eternities ago. “We overheard everything - it’s so horrible! We’ll take you somewhere safe, please-”

“It’s alright.” It may as well be true. “No one would want me.”

She’s crying for him? She crumples and constricts, the hold now a vice grip. This girl forgives too easily; a stupid trait to carry in such dire times. He can’t feel anything but pity for her foolishness. No one would ever take him back.

“Noatak loves me. Not in the way I want, but there’s no one else left who still does.”

Her grasp does not give, but it does loosen. He removes himself. “I have to go. I hope you succeed. Good luck.”

Tarrlok doesn’t look back, knowing he might succumb. A laugh with sprinkles of choking sputters out of him when he finds Lee too overjoyed to see him return. Gods in heaven, what an idiot. If Amon’s choke hold on his mind can be tilted by a wilting flower, then he may as well be a fool. At least, that’s what he says to himself when they return on time, the scents and colors fading like a cruel, misleading dream.

Noatak dismisses his lieutenant and asks if he tried to harm him. Tarrlok tells a half-truth, and initiates a kiss; lusty and grateful.

He’s a fool, as well.


End file.
